


the beginning is the end

by seraf



Series: fundamentally people [9]
Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, New Dangan Ronpa V3: Everyone's New Semester of Killing
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hope's Peak Academy (Dangan Ronpa), Alternate Universe - Non-Despair (Dangan Ronpa), Character Study, Developing Relationship, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Incest, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Introspection, M/M, Multi, Ultimate Talent Development Plan (Dangan Ronpa)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-30
Updated: 2019-07-30
Packaged: 2020-07-27 03:53:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20039488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraf/pseuds/seraf
Summary: at first he justifies it to himself.says that this can't be love, because he knows what love feels like, has since he was nine years old and she told him to keep a secret between the two of them, and this – doesn't feel like that. the burn in his chest when kaito wraps his arms around him, that time up on the roof ( don't think about how you might have jumped, if he hadn't been there, don't think about all the times his strange intuition has stopped you from being nothing but a urn full of ashes next to your sister's ) doesn't feel anything like the love he knows.





	the beginning is the end

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ktfics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ktfics/gifts).

****

as the truth of the matter is, korekiyo shinguji has been loved all his life. ( hasn't he? )

as the truth of the matter is, korekiyo shinguji has never been loved before.

not like  _ this _ , at least – he remembers love as a constant act of submission, of demolition; she had so many empty places and he had ( or so she told him ) so many extra pieces to give, jagged-out and asymmetrical as they were on him, and so love is – love is a series of sanding himself down, carefully breaking off the pieces of himself she swears he can go without to fill in the holes that grow without cessation, that grow more quickly than he can fill them.

love is, love  _ was  _ a bartering system. a treaty, an eye for an eye. she could not eat, could not keep down solid foods, she had no friends to come visit her, she couldn't see the world, so neither could he, his body shrinking down into a size small enough that he can try and fit in her heart, his world stuck to the space between his school and the train and the hospital.

love is an all-encompassing beast, and he swore to her, to himself, that he would only ever have one. and he was fine with that, wasn't he? all they ever needed was each other. nobody else understood them, nobody else would ever love them. they only had each other.

at first he justifies it to himself.

says that this  _ can't  _ be love, because he knows what love feels like, has since he was nine years old and she told him to keep a secret between the two of them, and this – doesn't feel like that. the burn in his chest when kaito wraps his arms around him, that time up on the roof ( don't think about how you might have jumped, if he hadn't been there, don't think about all the times his strange intuition has stopped you from being nothing but a urn full of ashes next to your sister's ) doesn't feel anything like the love he knows.

it hurts. it aches, being this close to someone ( an idle part of him realizes he can smell the cheap 2-in-1 shampoo kaito uses, resting his head on his shoulder like this, and the more rational part of him wonders why he's thinking about that. ), feeling how warm he is.

kiyo's skin is cold to the touch. it has been for as long as he can remember – he's always thought of his body as a mausoleum; too-pale and abandoned and eerie, cold to the touch and home for the dead, now. kaito is warm and holds him, though, like he can't feel that kiyo is something not-quite-alive, not-quite-human, and like he doesn't  _ care.  _ kaito is warm with life, and for a moment, something splits behind kiyo's sternum, and he feels alive, too.

( is this what love is? no, no, it can't be. love is an ache, yes, but not like this. not like the splitting in his chest that feels like it could rend him in two, not like the childish tears that threaten to shatter his composure, or the desire to just stay in that moment, to clutch onto him as though he were a life preserver. love does not feel like relief. kiyo knows this. )

( and yet, for a moment, he doubts. )

love isn't like this. for a moment, korekiyo shinguji worries that he might be falling in love with a boy who plays too many games and says he never tells the truth ( and that, kiyo has found out, is a lie too – he tells the truth, but only when people will think he is lying ) and acts more carefree than he really is. and for a moment, he thinks perhaps, perhaps this is love, because there are moments where kokichi is clearly hurt, and he never admits to it, grins right through it and sings out a bright distraction. let the sparklers go off, so the audience doesn't see you slipping the card into your sleeve.

that kind of love is familiar, at least, to kiyo. love sometimes means hiding things. she told him never to lie to her, and he did his best not to, but sometimes she would lie to him.  _ for your own good, sweet korekiyo. there are some things in this world you are better off not knowing. you know i only want to protect you. i love you so much. _

he's not unused to being lied to. he's better, these days, at seeing through the ones he's told.

but then he's at a loss again, because kokichi calls him his friend, and even though his voice is drawling and heavy with sarcasm, he's a liar, and in this case – that means that he means it. he's telling the truth; of his own volition, he wants to spend time with kiyo. of his own choice, he wants to be close to him. love isn't like that, either.

love, as korekiyo shinguji knows it, is an all-or-nothing game. there's never a choice in the matter. it's love, because they might as well be the only two people left in the world, and it's love, because neither of them have anyone else.

but kokichi  _ has  _ other people, and has no reason to choose korekiyo, and yet this is the third day this week they've spent together, kokichi talking about nothing at all or asking him for stories again.

for a moment, korekiyo wonders if love should feel like this. the exasperated fondness that swirls around his body, the content feeling at the idea of spending time with him. the simple act of having someone else listen. the casual, gentle warmth, like the autumn sun soaking through your clothes into your skin.

but it can't be. he knows what love is, and it was nothing like this.

so many things to contradict what he knows. isn't it curious, the spectrum of human emotion, human relationships?

_ ah,  _ he thinks one day, as he hunkers down just a little bit more into kaito’s borrowed sweatshirt, the warmth of his skin still lingering on it,  _ perhaps this is friendship.  _ that would certainly explain it, wouldn't it? he had never had friends before, after all, and it would explain sister's desire for them, if it was this kind of all-encompassing. but there's something in the way concern knits between kaito's eyes that just strikes him, like someone's raking nails down the inside of his sternum. 

it's such a small gesture. offering someone your jacket because you think they feel the autumn chill more severely than you do. but for some reason, for the rest of the week, kiyo's thoughts keep returning to it. 

kokichi asks him for stories, and he's always been a neverending well of them; spins out tales of different trickster figures across the world for him, a web of glittering words, of  _ loki, coyote, huehuecóyotl, anansi, brer rabbit, bamapana, set, hermes, azeban, kokichi, kokichi, kokichi.  _ ( he realizes at some point that kokichi is asking for them just as much to see him talk about what interests him as for the stories themselves, and he realizes that without any prompting, he's started looking for stories he'll be able to share with kokichi specifically, and he worries about the implications of either. ) 

he's haunted by dreams of him, golden and searing and mercury-quick, dreams of him larger than life and dancing around stone monuments of himself, dreams of the stories he might have written about him, the people he might hurt-help-trick. 

and that isn't love, either. 

( he's not used to people asking for information simply because he's the one giving it. he's used to an apologetic kind of love, folding himself down smaller and cutting down his words so as not to be a bother. he's just a vessel for information. so why does kokichi keep talking to him as though he's simply got an interest in listening to what he has to say, rather than the stories themselves? that's not how things are meant to go. ) 

and then, and then, the tide draws out and leaves his feelings scattered and bare like debris on the sand, and he doesn't have the benefit of plausible deniability, anymore. he can't justify it to himself, anymore. 

they're drinking on the roof, because it's the kind of thing kaito thinks the movies think is a fundamental teen experience, and none of the three of them have had very many of those, and kiyo's skin is warm and flushed alcohol-hot and at some point he realizes he must have pulled his mask down because kokichi says he has a nice smile, and he's leaning against kaito's side and talking without any fear of what he's saying. 

kokichi is beginning to confuse himself, forgetting what's truth and what are lies, automatically saying  _ that's a lie!  _ and then blinking, re-evaluating, and following on with  _ or is it? or is that the lie?  _ with a giggle, he admits he doesn't remember, and steals kaito's jacket, insisting that kiyo share it with him. 

_ hey, no fair, you can't just leave me out, that's not fair,  _ kaito says with something that could almost be called a pout, and it's kiyo's idea at first, but that's how they end up with kiyo draped over kaito and kokichi lying on kiyo's back, the misappropriated jacket doing its best to cover all three of them, on the school roof with the stars overhead to watch. 

_ this is love,  _ sister tells him in his dreams, caressing his face with pale blue hands and kissing him with something that, were it anyone else, he might call desperation. her nails dig into his cheeks.  _ you know that, right?  _ this _ is love. you and i . . . what we have, this is love. you will never find it somewhere else, korekiyo. there is only us. only our love.  _ and she cards her hands through his hair and holds him close to her chest, murmuring words of love that belonged to the poets before they ever belonged to her, and he sits there and lets her, hands numb and mouth unreactive even as she tries to kiss him again. 

this is love, this is love, this is love. 

but there is no life, no warmth, in her embrace. she holds him tight, her nails digging into his skin with the force of her love, and a chill runs down his spine. 

before he wakes, the last thing he remembers is her holding his face between her hands, eyes staring into his with an intensity that hurts him, makes him want to turn away.  _ you are a good little brother, korekiyo. don't let this continue. you already have everything you need. you do not need anyone, anything, else. only me. only ever me. you love me, do you not?  _

_ i love you,  _ he replies, but the voice coming out of his chest barely feels like it's attached to him. 

the morning air is cold when they wake up, and korekiyo wonders when the last time he slept through the night like this was. kokichi is snoring, on his back, and kaito's shirt is smeared with his lipstick - he supposes he never did put his mask back on, and his face  _ had  _ been resting there last night. 

it's not love. 

when all of them wake up, none of them want to move, and kiyo finds the weight of kokichi's arms around his waist, the feeling of kaito's heartbeat under the side of his face, more comforting than it should be. like this, he feels almost like he could be present in his own body for once. like it belongs to him. like it's more than just the past tense of a corpse, animated by another's desire. 

it's  _ not  _ love. 

they can't say it. none of them want to say it, none of them want to put a name to it. 

and korekiyo begins to panic, because he realizes this is a conversation he  _ wants  _ to have, this is something he doesn't want to leave, and he begins to try and move, to get up, only to have the weight of kokichi's body pin him in place, the supreme leader using every spare pound he's got to keep him there. 

_ i won't be the only honest one here,  _ he tells kaito and korekiyo, with an exasperated roll of his eyes, and korekiyo realizes what - perhaps kaito also realizes at that moment, that kokichi doesn't want them to leave, that perhaps he is scared of them leaving, that his paranoia is rising hot and overtaking in his chest, and korekiyo  _ aches  _ because there has only ever been one cause for him, one reason for being, and she is telling him to leave them both on the roof, but he doesn't want to. 

he doesn't want to!

since when is  _ he _ allowed to want? 

the weight of that wanting feels like it could eat him alive. 

_ it's not love! _

he knows better. he does. this is teenage infatuation at best, and he can no longer retain his objectivity as a scientist, as an anthropologist, like this. he needs to get away. he needs to stop wanting. ( shouldn't he know better, after all these years, then to long for something like this? love is a game of sacrifices; you don't get to want. it's a dedication to making the other person happy, to letting yourself be defined by them. ) 

but kaito is silent for a long moment before he says  _ let's . . . go back to that museum next weekend. take some time to, uh . . . . process things, y'know?  _

korekiyo knows better, and he should refuse, he should if he were  _ really a good person really a good brother korekiyo i am disappointed in you come now you have better judgement than this -  _ but he doesn't. he succumbs to that feeling of want, an ache like he hasn't felt in years. ( he's forgotten what it was like. ) 

it's not love. it's not love. it's not love. 

it  _ can't  _ be. 

because if this is love, this feeling of aching - fondness - burning - turmoil - warmth - desire in his chest, what has he known until now?  _ that  _ was love. that was love, and it is nothing like this, so this must be something different. he must - he has to isolate himself from this. he  _ can't  _ show up there, next week. this needs to be cut off, and quickly. 

it's not love. 

come next weekend, he's waiting at the museum entrance for the two of them. 

**Author's Note:**

> this doesn't have to be canon to fundamentally people verse if you arent a fan of this ship, it's just something kt and i ended up. Spawning


End file.
